


body, they blame you for all things

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Catholicism, Gen, House Being House, Loss of Faith, Loss of Identity, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Child Abuse, Priest Abuse, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 13:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: It takes a priest for Robert Chase to lose his faith.





	body, they blame you for all things

**Author's Note:**

> for 15woes with the your choice prompt, which i used for 'lost faith', and hc-bingo with the square "loss of identity".
> 
> again, heed the tags. this fic's quite heavy.
> 
> the title is from a ilya kaminsky quote.
> 
> enjoy!

His main gripe with his faith is that, well— how could God allow all of this?

At first, it was an intermittent thought. How could He allow his father to leave him; leave him and his sister and his mother? How could He allow his mother to drown her sorrows in wine and whiskey, scream at him for having the nerve to want her to get better, for having her lock him into his father’s abandoned office and have him look through those medical textbooks to pass the time? How could He allow his mother to die? It was thoughts he had in moments of desperation, while he slowly lost hope for himself. But now it’s always there, in the back of his head.

Perhaps it has to do with Father Ezekiel. He’s a taller gentleman, never seen out of his priest garb, as one might expect in a seminary school. Gray eyes, with that spark in his eyes whenever he read off the Bible. One could tell he really was in it because he loved it, because he believed. But that didn’t stop him from being as unholy as he could be, oh no. Nothing could stop him from welcoming Hell with open arms.

Every day he replays the memory in his head. Of him grabbing at him, whispering that this is all God’s will. That he’ll be okay if he just lets him do what he wants. That he is a holy man, that he loves his followers, that he has to show his followers just how far his love goes. That’s what he kept saying, over and over, like a sick excuse he was making without being asked to. His body is a ruined temple, blessed again and again, and Father Ezekiel tells him that if it wasn’t for him being so pretty, he wouldn’t be in this situation. That oh, did you know you are my first? His first what— his first victim? His first toy?

Chase has always known there were priests like this. But when he turned eighteen, he thought he was safe from them. But as Father Ezekiel makes him kneel, clasps his hands together, pulls his pants down like a sick mockery of what prayer should be, of what prayer is but Chase can’t do it anymore without bile rising up his throat.

His identity has always been made out of a house of cards, shaky and ready to be blown out by the mildest wind. Always a list of labels, because he has little more than that. Australian, Catholic, intensivist, doctor, immigrant, bisexual. And now— and now one of those things is shaky, and he doesn’t know if he is a Catholic anymore. It’s like the house of cards got one of its cards taken out of it, and now it’s propelling onto the ground.

He doesn’t pray throughout most of med school. He makes his way through it blind, almost hoping for a sign, for something that will tell him  _ you can believe again _ , that it will all be okay after all. He sees one of the campus counselors and instead of understanding why he doesn’t feel Catholic anymore, why he hates it, why he can’t pray without remembering Father Ezekiel forcing him to fellate him, he gets pitying looks. The counselor tells him she can go to church with him on Sunday. As if that’ll fix anything. 

When he gets his job under House, he almost thinks this is it. That he will find a meaning, an easy fix. But no— it’s just work. It’s just House mocking people of faith whenever they have the misfortune of ending up as his patients. It’s just House watching him, always watching, observing him carefully. The way House acts around him makes him nervous, but he tries to ignore it.

Sometimes he feels like House is God. He’s the same punishing God his father taught him, with the mockery, the laughs, the jokes aimed at him. He always says he’s eye candy, and it makes him think of him once again. Of how his body is at blame for all the things that have happened to him. How if he wasn’t a piece of eye candy, if he wasn’t a pretty boy, if he wasn’t gorgeous, maybe he wouldn’t have been Father Ezekiel’s first meal. But that means someone else would’ve had to bear that burden at some point.

He can live with that burden, as long as he lives with the false hope that man never hurts anyone after him. That he’s bearing that cross to keep his sins away from everyone else.

“Are you still religious, doctor Chase?” House asks one day, apropos of nothing.

Chase still has a rosary. Chase still grabs it, puts it to his heart sometimes. But he hasn’t prayed in years, and Father Ezekiel will perhaps haunt him to the grave.

“I don’t know,” he answers. And it’s truthful, it’s as truthful as he gets. He doesn’t know anymore.

House’s gaze softens and he leans in closer to him, almost careful to not disturb the air around him. “I get that, wombat.”

Chase knows it’s not a good idea to give details of his life to his boss, but he still obliges, “I had a crisis of faith during seminary.”

“Oh?” House’s lips quirk upward, curiosity in his eyes. “Why?”

He looks away. “Not your business,” he says.

“Did a priest touch you in the naughty place?” House throws that into the air like it’s nothing. He’s always made jokes about shit like that, but... When Chase visibly pales, he goes silent. “Fuck, man,” he says, almost gently. Like he  _ cares _ . “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Chase provides, looking at his fingernails. “Don’t worry.”

They stay silent for several seconds. 

House pipes up, “Have you seen a therapist?” Chase almost questions it— House seems the type to think therapy is for those too weak to take care of themselves.

“Not here in Jersey, no,” he says. “It didn’t work out the last time, anyway.”

“I’ll find you one,” House tells him without any doubt in his ice blue eyes. “For the benefits, of course.”

Chase manages a little smile and nods. 

“For the benefits, of course,” he agrees. 


End file.
